


Hitchhikers

by savaged



Category: Football RPF
Genre: FIFA Ballon d'Or 2012, M/M, Rivalry, Switzerland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2264091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savaged/pseuds/savaged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hitchhiking is a means of transportation that is gained by asking people, usually strangers, for a ride in their automobile or other road vehicle. The latter may require many rides from different people. A ride is usually, but not always, free.</p><p>Set in 2012, Zurich, Switzerland, right after the FIFA Ballon d'Or Ceremony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hitchhikers

**Author's Note:**

> enjoy :)

 

 **I** t's hard to even imagine how he would end up like this, on one side of the dark road carrying an object with his other hand, under the pretty moon. He looks up to the stars for any chance of an helicopter passing through, -quite the most common thing ever, right?- with no signal on his phone after that stupid disagreement with his manager in the middle of a lone land somewhere in Switzerland. 

 

Now that he comes to think about it he's left his cellphone in the back of the black car. Yeah, the one that ditched him there thirty fucking minutes ago, that's why it hasn't beeped or buzzed in the pocket of his jacket with the calls of congratulations from friends and family. Because _it isn't there_.

He grits his teeth and shakes his head walking back and forth through cold grass. Crickets and wind sound around him, leaves being tugged by the breeze between his feet. After all and each one of the cars that pass by every few minutes, Lionel sees the blurry shape of two lights in the distance approaching at all speed. He sighs heavily preparing to be ignored again when he waves his arm like he's holding a lit up match, and the fire's about to consume the wooden stick. That's not as far as his desperation goes. He steps into the middle of the road, praying to God that it's not the last thing he'll do tonight.

To his surprise, the nice, clean, big car starts to slow down to stop completely in front of him. There's no way this is a common citizen's car; the blinding brightness doesn't let Leo see who's inside until the passenger's door opens with a smooth snap. The face of a known challenger appears concerned and perplexed.

"What are you doing?"

Leo doesn't find a simple answer for that question. He steps back before doing anything, and his grip tightens around the round object he lays on his hip. Cristiano touches his cap and looks at the shimmer of light on the clean golden ball behind Leo, indifferent.

"Common. Come in."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." Cristiano looks at the rearview mirror searching for more cars. He swallows and waits for Leo to settle and close the door, leaving the Ballon d'Or between his thighs and making sure the seatbelt isn't broken or has some weird spell on it. "It's nice" Cris points at the shinny thing.

"Yeah, it's heavy." The driver nods a little. Well done, Leo. "Can we go anywhere near here? I'm not feeling okay."

"My place's near here, where's yours?"

He doesn't get Lionel's silence until two minutes later.

"I can drop you somewhere if you wanna leave."

"No, I'm good. It's not that, we... I mean... I screwed up" his head falls down, frightened. Powerless. "Sorry, I... Don't deserve this thing. I wasn't sure if I-"

"Things like that happen. I would be glad if I was in your shoes."

Thick dark foliage streams through the windows. The night starts to close as the car reaches curves in the road that goes towards the peak of some kind of mountain, Lionel runs his hand through his hair peeking at Ronaldo's profile from the corner of his eye. He's silent.

"You'd be glad in the shoes of anyone. It's _you_."

Cristiano smiles. The only thing missing is a diamond tooth that goes 'bling' every time he does that, Leo thinks, falling in his own thread of thoughts. As he does, a wooden lit up building appears before the black window films of the car. It's even more sylvan than in the flyer Ronaldo has, the three floors raised above the ground on a rock with views of the whole wood around them.

Kind of creepy, come to think of, when Leo steps out avoiding the rude stare of the frigid dogs -all black, bright-eyed and tall- and the only rule Cristiano puts is "keep walking, there's Toblerone under the pillows" as he pushes Leo into the living room and strolls to the kitchen to leave the car keys there.

He isn't sure if the lights are making Lionel look like a snowflake when he comes back -because he's already pale by nature, but,- there's something definitely wrong with him. Mean, he's crouching in front of the cream leather sofa holding the Ballon d'Or between his arms like it's a child, and trembling, which is not a good sign at all, either.

"Mind me asking you what's wrong?"

"Uh... Nothing" Leo goggles for a bathroom door. 

"We can talk if you want to."

He's gonna make him beg. Leo hates that, and Cristiano's very aware.

"Seriously, seriously. D'you have a cellphone? I need to make a ca-" he takes his hand to cover his mouth as the liquids remaining in his stomach go the inverse way and reach the back of his throat. "Shit" he swallows, violently gagging. Cristiano can only stare. "Um, a fight with my manager, nothing big."

"Yeah? Tell me about that, they think they own us" he shakes his head, "ah, listen, man. We all have those moments where-"

"Are you gonna tell me where the bathroom is" Lionel bursts opening his arms in defeat, and sinks when Ronaldo doesn't try to hide a smile, victorious.

"First door to your left. It's open. Feel welcome." 

+

Ten minutes later after breaking in a puking crisis of some kind, hugging himself from the white marble of the toilet while Cristiano waits with folded arms leaning against the wall, he finally looks up and decides to take the offer. A quick shower, quite the deal, and toothpaste to brush his teeth with his finger. Hey, at least his skin color is back.

He takes a look at himself in the mirror putting his boxers back on. Cristiano storms in while he does so. "Can you take some rest?"

"No, I'll make some calls and-"

"Hey, the Ballon d'Or is safe in the living room, don't worry" he clears that up smirking when he sees Leo's face, "and are you gonna tell me that you don't want to see your manager freak out about where you are in a couple of hours? Worth it, trust me." Cristiano lifts Leo's clothes from the floor and takes them into the room at the end of the hallway. "Why don't you call your wife? She must be worried. I've got Play Station, a pack of cards..."

Lionel just follows, viewing the little details in the decoration of the house, drugged up from the fragrance of the shampoo, just out of the shower. He finds something familiar in the details of the decoration of Cris' rented house and finds himself fond of the warmth of it. He supposes portuguese people must be warm like that.

"Anto's not my... I told her I had left, before the argument. It's fine, really." 

"Well... I don't want this place to be found, Leo. It's my hidden spot here in Zurich" he folds Leo's suit and leaves it on the edge of the bed. "I think you should call her. You know how women can be," Cristiano raises an eyebrow, chuckles. He opens a drawer and Leo's about to protest when he takes out a navy blue pajama. As Cris takes the hint, he goes sharply at it; "you don't like it?"

"No, no. I do, but-"

"'Cause It's the ugliest one I have."

Leo jerks his head, replying hastily. "I like it, really."

Cris smiles and leans against the closest night table, unfolding his arms. "You don't need to wear it if you don't like it."

"I said I like it, t's okay."

He seriously needs to spend the rest of the night with this confident jerk? 

"Whatever will suit you, you're Ronaldo" he mouths, even jealous, and as he looks down unfolding the blue shirt with pants already on, mutters "you're attractive. I mean," all the color gone before comes back in a shinning scarlet through his neck and face. 'I mean...' Leo presses his lips firmly. "I mean, like, you are? It comes along your body and- Like, genetics-"

Cristiano reaches Leo's face with his fingers. "Yeah, I know" he closes the gap left between them, chuckling.  "You really need to stay tonight."

"Cris, _qué_..."

Leo dwells on the feel of Cristiano's fingers running beneath his chin enough to forget what he's just said. He bites hard at his bottom lip, and feels the arousal grow hot on him. And unadvised and deserving it, he focuses again once their faces are hovering a couple of inches away. He brings himself to breathe, his mind skipping spaces. 

" _What are you doing_ -"

They share lips for some seconds until Messi draws, staring at him like a muted lost kid. Cris ignores the dull apprehensiveness and pushes finding place for his tongue inside his mouth, during the spaces that take place between seconds. It drives him to senseless bliss the way Lionel's tongue wraps around his almost automatically, foreseeing.

The portuguese officially kisses him, devouring those pink parted lips however he's able to. Leo pulls from his wrists, standing on the tip of his toes. He doesn't even reason anymore, everything's happening quickly. A shrieked moan -between the soft clicking and wet quirks,- after they accidentally rub each other's pants.

"Sorry" Leo apologizes in a hushed tone recovering air from the tongue assault, but Cris chuckles and repeats, nonchalant, not minding a bit of it. And Leo moans, clamping his arms down. "Cris. Cris, please."

This is not the kid that grew up somewhere lost in Argentina. Or he still is, he rather be, because that's exactly what Cris sees in his begging eyes; the second intention in that second " _please_ ". Oh, if this is the Leo he has beaten at Barça's matches.

The man pulls at the navy blue pants - _his_ pants-, never leaving his grip on Lionel's hip. He _belongs_ to him. That was implicit since the minute he stepped inside his car.

He runs a hand through his mouth ignoring the fact that they're in the middle of his room, while Leo protests, furrowing his brow and throwing a glance up. That look means all. Leo's slightly struck dumb at how expressive Cristiano actually is with his eyes when they meet, and a hand's tightened around him and he can do nothing more embarrassing but gasp. If he has come this far, why don't just go with the flow? Cris taunts him mimicking his expression. Leo's mouth dries. The only thing he centers all his focus on is on the shape of the ceiling lamp above them, and tries to ignore whatever will happen next, or whatever will be the incredible aftermath of this. 

"Mind at least looking at me, Leo?"

Oh God. _Not_ this kind of talk. Just shut up, please, _do it quick_... Leo instinctively rests his hand on the soft hair and pulls slightly at it towards himself, groaning loudly when tight lips surround him.

It's weird.

It feels like sugar in his mouth and being slick between clouds of cotton candy at the same time. It feels as if his legs were melting, along humming and a hand gripping at the back of his thigh, pulling roughly. Each time Ronaldo swallows deeper, he hits the back of his throat and has to close his eyes from gazing the view before him; the guy's hollowed cheeks accenting his cheekbones, thin eyebrows raised. It's _Cristiano_. And he's down on his knees, touching and pulling and flipping, his tongue pushing Lionel up to the ceiling of his warm mouth, making music out of something so incredibly wrong and right at the same time; giving. 

He's _giving_ himself, Leo finds the word and smile, digging his nails into Cris' scalp because this is more than what he can take. He's just so devoted when an hour before he'd grit his teeth at the only figure of the Ballon's winner. These shifts that can't affect the attraction he feels for him, these little things that can't twist the way he wants to embrace Leo are all consequences of thinking it over and over again. He isn't a bit anxious, but ecstatic from the sounds coming from Lionel's mouth when he does this and that; and seconds before coming, he removes himself completely from Lionel to take a break and stand up, removing his own clothes.

A dry mouth closes in awe at such action. Leo's too overwhelmed and left empty by the sudden pause, pushing his back into the wall, driven insecure and embarrassed when Cristiano exposes his fully naked body in front of him. 

All that's shortly gone by the push and heat of the other man's self around him. Strong arms around his waist lift him up the fucking wall, obliging his legs to wrap around the tanned torso and grasp tightly tensed shoulders. Leo swallows, realizing he's about to fuck the man of all those ads. He's about to fuck a legend, really, the guy who's been making his life a twenty percent more difficult to bare.

"Don't even think too much about it," Cris' panting voice whispers into his ear, and probes him with straightening fingers, eager to do this quick before one of them backs off. "I like you so much like this-" Leo parts his pink lips open trying to moan, but he has a knot in his throat that won't let him even whimper as Cristiano's fingers deepen in him.

They're _thick_ , curving and sliding out again, and this low controlled breathing under his ear that's making the hairs in his nape bristle. What the fuck is he doing? He shudders muttering 'Ronaldo', not daring to look into his eyes. The other does it for him.

"Do you want me?" Cris raises his eyebrows looking down.

Leo leaves it implicit opening his legs for entrance; Cristiano's thick hard-on slides back and forth surrounding his tight spot and all he can do is hush himself biting his tongue, frown and tighten. Cris hands contrast with the pale skin of Leo's thighs, and he slaps his butt with one leaving the red shape of his palm and fingers across him.

"It's going to hurt if you don't relax," Cris sticks his tongue out licking a corner of his mouth. "Take that advice for everything in life, actually," and slowly, painfully -not for him, however- slides himself inside Lionel's clenched, tight body at which the other sighs and cries out. He can see, feel, hear Leo going ' _ah_!' at each inch he explores further, and he doesn't consider himself _that_ big, but Leo's short nails are definitely leaving blood marks on his shoulders tonight.

He presses their foreheads together and takes a look at Leo's scared eyes, not imagining how this was even possible to commit. He leans back and uses all the strength of his arms to lift him up the wall, so he doesn't have to force Lionel to move and thrusts soft with his hips at first. There's no use. He won't stop squinting. Cris' knows Leo'll keep silent the clutch around his neck and shoulders and hold harder onto him. So it's easier to handle him, and Cristiano gives him a long stroke just as he goes deep in again. Finally, Leo lets out a sharp, low moan.

Two minutes later he's crying Cris' name out loud, with all the dignity he was trying to keep gone and rolling his eyes behind closed eyelids, panting, focusing on how to stop his shuddering legs and the burning sensation; the pressure and friction Cristiano leaves when he slides. They pant. A shin of sweat and pink covers the skin of his chest, his temples, as Cristiano plants a kiss on the side of his neck and murmurs 'fuck, Leo,' because he's _tight_. And the rubber he wears keeps trying to slip out, as they thump the wall with each thrust and they echo through the house at some point, steaming up the window close to them, waiting for the night or one of them to finish first.

Cris' finds the need to carry Leo and sit him on the night table, still inside him, wrapping his legs. He slouches and finds it's not necessary to hear him get hurt anymore, he can see his eyes open again and kisses him slowly. Leo shrieks under his tongue. It's cute, but Cris' shouldn't think about it like that, simply because he feels himself breathing erratically and holding back when he does it, trying to make Leo come first before he does after some more thrusts. He isn't the kind of guy to finish quick, but it seems like his world is flipping each time he rams into the shorter guy.

Must be the magic of the Ballon d'Or around him.

What is he thinking about, anymore? A drop of sweat slides down his temple and he squeezes Lionel's thigh with one firm hand, feeling a warm content with the other. It catches him off guard and looks up to Leo, who has seemingly shut down. The adam's apple of his bitten neck bobs up and down. Leo's dimples appear. He's smirking, and sees Cris. 

"You really wanted to win against me at something, right" Cris leans in and bites his lip. 

"At least you're not yelling my name out loud anymore, I like you soft and quiet like this." 

Leo grins. He keeps steady, as Cristiano thrusts a couple more of times, hurried and focused. He comes and sways on the ball of his feet, laying forwards and putting his head on Lionel's shoulder. The player huffs.

"I'm brighter than that golden ball, y'know." 

"I can keep it on a shelf and watch it for hours, while you'd probably stand up and leave to check your hair. I'll keep that."

Their chuckles harmonize the silent ambience and grow louder after they end up teasing each other, lying on Cristiano's bed talking about their teammates. "It's practically 'cause they can't see you between all those tall europeans. They see the hole left between them and kick the ball there. They can't ignore it's you," he nudges Leo with an elbow. The other shakes his head.

"Wow, you talk about me? And what about you? You look like a big marshmallow. I bet they see you coming from miles away and who the fuck wouldn't be scared? I'm surprised the guys don't give the ball away when you're coming for it."

"Fuck you," Cristiano laughs. "That was unfair. I'm not that big." 

"You're as big as your ego. And that's large sized."

Cristiano takes his hands to cover his face, smiling. "I can't believe I'm having this discussion with you, why am I even talking about this?"

"It's like therapy." Cris looks at him, confused. "You can't talk about these kind of things with your teammates. You talk it with a rival. It's easier to tell you the truth, 'cause I don't give a fuck about you" Leo looks back, smiling. "Because I'm beating your ass at the next match."

 

.

 

But he can't name one place in the World that assimilates the feeling of Cris' broad chest beneath his head. The smooth tanned skin with an embedded heart beat he falls asleep quickly after some missed calls reaching Cris' cellphone, and waking up the next morning to the press wondering where the fuck he was.

 


End file.
